World War IV
by Your Father
Summary: A Jewish boy's quest to win his best friend's heart is continuously halted by the forces of nature. Repost because I swore in the summary. S/K
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER ONE **

turn off the lights

**authors note: its CALIFORNIA GURLS one year anniversary so to celebrate I'm starting a fucking new fic  
(this was originally posted in october)  
**

**aliens genetically altered humans rock creatures whatever fuck you  
**

* * *

Kyle Broflovski clenches his tight little Jew fists around the fork he's using to eat as he feeds himself some lunch, which is a usual human routine. Now, Kyle here had rebelled against his mother and his doctors recently, instead of eating not bacon and kosher jew food and things that don't have sugar because of his diabetes, he ate whatever the fuck he wanted because he was an _adult, _he was _seventeen_ and that is fucking _hella old_.

And this routine started around September, which is when school fucking _starts_ so he did this shit right away, where he'd get to school and throw away whatever jew feed that his mother had made delicately and wrapped in foil with a little note covered in hearts and the star of David- and he'd go to the fucking on-campus Dairy Queen (an addition petitioned by Cartman) and get himself a chili cheese dog with some vanilla soft serve.

The only one to really fucking notice was Stan, because he was always on Kyle's bony back about how _that's too much sugar for today I don't want you to pass out I wish you'd care about yourself like I do_, but of course that only lasted until about October, when he got back with that bitch _Wendy. _Though their constant there and back again relationship was something that everyone was so fucking used to that no one really gave a shit anymore, this was the biggest shock in the world to Kyle that it was like falling asleep on an electric fence to keep the cattle back. Because Kyle had almost completely, totally convinced himself that he was getting Stan to come onto him.

Maybe it was stupid, to think that your totally straight quarterback of the South Park Cows best friend was smitten for _you_, the nerdy, scrawny little curly ginger fuck—but Kyle swore, he _swore_ he saw it in his fucking eyes. When they'd blatantly lean against each other in the middle of a round of Thirst For Blood V, or when Stan would wrap his scarf around both of their necks to keep Kyle warm and toasty, _or_ when they'd share the same bed and Stan would drag Kyle against him by the waist and Kyle would lull himself to sleep by tracing the little indents in Stan's collarbone. But maybe he'd just been reading too much into it.

That was Kyle's deep, dark secret- other than his daily trade-out from jewstar rations to a greasefest of sugar and fat- he was a little tiny bit maybe completely in love with his dreamy drop-to-your-knees-handsome super best friend, and nobody fucking knew or was _ever_ going to know. Except Stan, but he was going to have to figure that out on his own.

Anyway, Kyle had been so fucking positive that he'd got himself a round-trip ticket to Stan Marsh that when he got to school on October 2nd (he remembers the exact fucking date, of course he does), striding with a recently positive vibe of Jewish ambition to the locker of Stan himself, to find Stan's hands riding up Wendy's ugly fucking lavender jacket as their lips moved like running tap water, he thought _who even wears that shade of lavender _and then bolted as far away as he fucking could, thinking he'd never have to see a sight like that for the rest of his life, because it would be _him_ slammed against Stan's locker, getting to feel his guitar-callused fingers work his way up _his_ bare exposed flesh, except Kyle wouldn't be wearing that fucking shade of purple.

And since all of Stan's fucking Kyle attention was now property of Wendy, Kyle was left walking home and tripping over his untied shoelaces without Stan's dreamy athletic arms to keep him from skidding against the sidewalk. Because he had never really learned to tie his shoes, because Stan would always be there to do that. So he'd just trip and skid against the god damn sidewalk every single day after school, because he was alone. Here he was, lying facefirst in a puddle of yesterday's rain with his cheeks all scratched from whatever fucking rocks were on the ground, while Wendy and Stan made out in a candlelit bedroom. Kyle's life was really, really, _really_ hard.

So even though Kyle started noticeably getting lightheaded and weak and would scurry to the bathroom in the middle of a super critical Physics lecture to vomit out a concoction of Dairy Queen, he continued to pig out on junk food every lunch break, just to get Stan to give him even _one_ second of his attention, or concern, or even _love_. But that was too much to ask, Kyle figured, because in Stan's eyes his girl needed to be fondled and fed and loved much more than his _super best friend_ did. But no, that was the opposite case, because every night Kyle would go home cheek-scarred and sick and dizzy and press his face against the t-shirt that Stan had left whatever last _century_ ago their most recent sleepover had been, and inhale the deep scent of love and dependency and taco meat and aftershave that made up _Stan Marsh._

And even though he'd do this if it meant he'd collapse to his death as he began to choke out the words _"__I'll take the usual" _to the smiling Dairy Queen cashier, Kyle was quite frankly getting sick of it.

That was why his fist was clenched especially tight around his plastic fork today, so tight that even his bitten-down nails pricked at his palm. Because he was _fucking sick_ of having to watch Wendy whore around on Stan's perfect, _legendary_ thighs and watch that ugly blotch of lavender move in a steady rhythm in his peripheral vision as he attempted to swallow down the sickeningly old mixture that melted soft serve and chili-cheese had created. It had been three agonizing weeks, and that was where Kyle had to cross the line that he had so furiously drawn. He was going to speak up.

Speaking up was hard for Kyle, because he hated the way his almost endearing boy voice had manifested into this shrill, desperate whine with every word that left his chapped lips. And he especially hated speaking up to Stan, _especially_ because he heard his voice at approximately zero times a day. But Kyle convinced himself that today was the day that he'd stop increasing his chances for an early death with the pounds of Dairy Queen lurching through his bloodstream, and he'd pull Stan aside and tell him what was fucking what. Because he wasn't a fucking girl, even though he'd acted like one for about all of senior year thus far. But it was just October, so maybe Kyle could dumb down on the effeminate dicketry.

And so Kyle shoveled what was left of the soft serve and chili cheese dog into the paper Dairy Queen bag (the smell wafting from it was something that Kyle was fucking positive he and all of his clothes reeked of, no matter how much Gain brand Apple Mango Tango laundry detergent he'd soak them or himself in), and he got to his ungainly bird feet and threw that shit away, right on top of the kosher lunch bag with his mother's Sharpie smiley face looking up at him from the dark pit of high school food remnants. Kyle for once felt a little bit proud of himself, for one second he knew that he had mustered every fiber of self-dignity he had left into throwing away this dripping paper bag of artery cloggers, that he'd proved to himself that he wasn't going to be pushed around by his foolish, adolescent heart. But that didn't last very long.

Because now Kyle didn't have anything to cry for attention with other than actual _cries _for attention left, and he was left standing dazed and woozy by the trash can staring at Stan Marsh's crooked smile that was _all _for Wendy. All for her. What did she do, other than wear that disgusting color, to earn or deserve even one ounce of Stan's reverent attention?

But then again, what did Kyle do?

He stopped fucking thinking that far, because that always ended with _some_ episode of inflicting _some_ kind of physical pain on himself, but Kyle figured that the Dairy Queen gradually digesting in the chili-cheese and vanilla acids of his stomach were taking care of that. He stopped thinking about the unwelcome contents of his stomach, too.

Kyle gathered himself, right there beside the trash can as he got shoved away a little bit by people throwing food away, _right there_ he decided that he was going to _storm_ over and _demand_ that Stan look him in his green vomit chunk colored eyes and tell him that he'll give him his _undivided _attention and _ditch_ this lavender slutbag. That was exactly what he was going to fucking do.

But, alas. Kyle _had_ managed to muster what looked like an angry stomp for about two steps until his body told him _stop that's too much effort_ and he resorted to a slow, idle little stroll while trying to not trip over the tattered, dirtied shoelaces that trailed behind him. And once he'd rounded the corner of the table and come to a halt about five feet from Stan's _perfect_ back, instead of pulling back his shoulders and lifting him to his feet to demand that he look his way maybe even fucking once, his pale, shaky finger went out to prod the little spot where Stan's shoulder met his neck, which was way too fucking exhilarating to Kyle. But he did it, he _touched_ Stan, with his desperate, shaky fingertip, that little gesture serving as the words that he would never have the Dairy Queen-infused guts to say, "Can you look at me?"

And with an almost invisible little jolt, Kyle's silent question was finally fucking answered, all of his dreams and hopes and wonders boiling down into the one momentous second when Stan's head would tilt behind him and his big gorgeous baby-blue eyes would do the fucking favor of even sparing a glance at him. And he did. He actually did it, Kyle's world going in slow-motion. His gaze on his lavender mistress finally, _finally_ broken, just so he could see who was standing behind him and poking his shoulder.

"Oh, dude," Stan's voice like fucking audible chocolate rings in Kyle's ears, his lips curving into an adorable fucking smirk that made Kyle resist want to lift him up and squeeze the living daylight out of him.

"H-hey," Kyle choked out, too fucking distracted by Stan's big sapphire orbs fixated right on _him_, making _him_ feel chills course through _his_spine. "Dude."

And, well, Kyle had gotten Stan to look into his gross green barf eyes, but now came demanding that he let go the wench pressed against the side of his thigh. And she too had turned around to see what was fucking interrupting her 24/7 love session, and as if Kyle's face wasn't bright fucking red enough, it got even _rosier_ but for her it was just out of pure _rage_.

"Hello," Wendy sounded clearly fucking annoyed and that tone was something that Kyle couldn't take right now. But he made it this far, so.

"S-stan, can I, uh, talk to you? Like. _P-privately_?" Kyle hoped he'd stop being an awkward little fuck when he got Stan pulled to the side and wouldn't just stand there red and sweating and bothered.

"Sure? Yeah," Stan nodded slowly, looking back at Wendy apologetically. _Oh, fucking suck it up_, Kyle grumbled internally.

But Kyle wasn't really sure this was happening, as Wendy slid off him so he could get to his perfect, stable feet, then rising up a few inches above Kyle's level and so fucking close to him that it was almost too much to take in. But when he shot him that god damn smile again, he was pretty much beyond hard.

And he realized he'd been standing there with saucer eyes just basking in Stan's aura, almost everyone at Stan's table concernedly looking at the interruption. So he laughed it off because that was always the best thing to fucking do, right, and then he shook his red face and tried to dumb down his stupid fucking victory grin as he backed up a little bit.

"Uh, right, come on," Kyle's voice first came out in a whisper, forced out louder with each torturous syllable.

And Kyle turned around and started walking, he didn't even know where to take Stan, the fact that he was _taking Stan somewhere_ made him shiver, and he kept walking through the cafeteria until he hit the door to the halls, turning his head every second to make sure that Stan was really, really following him.

So Kyle continued to lead Stan through the sudden labyrinth that South Park High School had become, and he scurried up the second floor stairs with hopes that there would be a lot less teenage passerby around. But when it was just about the same fucking amount of people, he gave in and led Stan into the empty men's restroom, awkwardly treading to the handicap stall in the back and holding the door open for Stan. And he _actually_ went in with him, and he _actually_ fucking locked the door behind them.

And of course he'd just stood there and fucking stared at him for a good minute or two again.

"Uhm," Stan cleared his throat because he clearly fucking noticed the slow descent of love drool oozing from the corner of Kyle's mouth, lost in the fucking trance of the figure before him. "So."

"R-_right!_ Right," Kyle fucking jumped and hit his elbow on the toilet paper dispenser, which in turn made him hiss in pain and kneel over and clench at the bone. "Fuck."

"Listen, I think I have a little idea of what you wanted to talk about," Stan says, his voice ringing through Kyle's ears and the confined tile walls like he was speaking in a fucking megaphone.

"P-probably. A little idea,_ ow_…" Kyle was still leaning over and biting his bottom lip and massaging his poor little elbow.

"It's not that I don't want to spend time with you, dude," Stan already starts like he's mid fucking conversation because he knows Kyle did kind of come here for a fight, although he really didn't have it in him to blow up at Stan right now. "It's—"

"It's just that you'd rather spend time with her, yeah, _got it_," Kyle croaked out, still keeled over and facing the disgusting tile that he'd thrown up at a number beyond measure. Or he just never kept track.

"No, _fuck_," Stan sighed and ran his hand through his sleek raven locks, slamming his back against the grimy tile walls. That attractive sigh made Kyle tilt his head up a little to get a good view of Stan poised like this. "She's just, she needs a lot of fucking attention, okay, and she wants this to be a long-term thing for once, and if I'm always ditching her then we're never going to work it out."

Then Kyle really needs to fucking sit down, because he feels the Dairy Queen creeping its way back _up_ his digestive track and the corners of his vision start to sparkle white before he slams his ass against the floor. "Uh-huh, well," Kyle rubs at his temples at a slow, steady pace to calm every inch of him down. "It's not like. If you're always ditching me, maybe one day I'm just going to get sick of it."

"I'm not… always ditching you… I mean, you never ask—" Stan starts to fumble and Kyle can already hear the busted tone in his voice.

"I don't even _bother_ asking anymore, Stan. Because she's first fucking priority, because you already had plans to fuck on her couch that afternoon. A-and why would you want to spend time with me anymore, why would you want to even say a word to me, or look at me, o-or _touch_ me, when you don't really fucking need me?" Kyle's voice started to crack now and he let it happen, and he couldn't tell if it was vomit or tears that he was holding back.

"I-I do need you," Stan says feebly like a kid getting yelled at for eating the last of the cookies.

"What for?" And that's when Kyle starts to cry, all broken and vulnerable at Stan's feet, silent tears speeding down his cheeks.

"I don't know, I just," Stan laughed without feeling because that was such a stupid question in his head, and he tilted his head back toward the ceiling. "Need you."

"You don't really," Kyle chokes out, torn apart. "There's nothing I have to offer that she doesn't do better."

"Are—are you _jealous_? Fuck, are you crying?" Stan finally looks down at Kyle's pathetic quaking form, and his _my-super-best-friend-is-crying-and-it's-my-fault_ instinct kicks in so he drops to his knees and meets Kyle's level.

"I've had Dairy Queen every day, Stan," Kyle squeaked through his tears, and Stan's face that was creased with worry then uncreased with _holy shit_.

"No," was all Stan said, inching closer to the trembling Jew before him, and then realizing that was why he could smell chili cheese dog with a weird vanilla twinge. "Dude, _why?"_

"I th-thought you would notice," Kyle started quaking and sniffing and rubbing furiously at his stupid tears and stupid snot and wanting to stop looking so pathetic in front of the love of his life. "I thought one day you'd pull away from her and be like, _'Kyle, stop, you'll pass out,' _and even _that_ would have been enough, just to know that you were still looking out for me, you know? It was me trying to prove to myself that she wasn't really your world, but…"

"Kyle—" his name left Stan's lips, loving and perfect, and as soon as it did the entire room began to violently quake, just as Kyle had been, the light fixtures shorting out and the mirrors cracking and shattering into hundreds of little shards. They leapt at each other, falling to the tile and squeezing with every ounce of devotion they had, Stan's strong, reassuring arms protecting him like he was in a fucking fortress, like there wasn't the biggest earthquake in Colorado history happening right at their feet.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

a knife called lust

* * *

Now this would be the part where Stan would say something along the lines of "let go, dude," or some casual but delicate _Stan_ way of telling someone you're being quite the space invader. But when the quaking had calmed, the glass shards ceased their rattling, and all but the several car alarms screeching outside had fallen silent- Kyle realized that Stan, trembling in his arms, needed this tight embrace just as much as he did. Well, almost. He probably wasn't the one fucking getting off on it.

But neither was Kyle, _yet_, because the fact that Stan was on top of him in the darkness and breathing hot, shaky, terrified breaths on his neck actually _wasn't_ his first priority right now, it was the fact that the biggest earthquake in Colorado history had indeed happened right at that moment. Kyle can't tell if the inconvenient timing was a good or a bad thing, because Kyle isn't sure if he really _wanted_ to hear what fucking Wendy-related excuse Stan was about to spew at him, and he wouldn't be under Stan, _under_ Stan in the _dark_, who he could tell was scared out of his mind and although Kyle should probably join him, Stan's arms were the ultimate symbol of safety. He could be in titanium armor, bazooka in hand, and still not feel as protected and unstoppable as he did at this very moment.

So beneath Stan's crushing body weight, he sighed a dreamy sigh and his tense body sunk relaxed against the definitely unhygienic condition of the bathroom floor. He wasn't really sure what to do, here, Stan's hands clamped down on his ribs, his own hands shakily resting on the back of Stan's neck, but it wasn't like he really wanted to do anything else, either. Other than the handful of Stan fantasies making their typical circulation through his head, except this time he was _under him_.

"_Fuck_," Stan whispers half against his neck, and the warmth from his mouth and the easily misinterpreted tone of his whisper is enough to make Kyle's dick twitch, which is really not something he wants right now, Stan's thigh in between his fucking legs.

"_Yeah_," Kyle manages to force a thick whisper out of his lips, his head tilting back to secretly give Stan better neck access, not like he'd know, what with the pitch black around them. He tries to think about the shit his stereotypical Jewish grandmother would cook when she came to visit, and how he'd have to eat whatever the fuck it even was as the smell twisted his throat and stung his eyes and it grudgingly slid down his esophagus, or else he'd be sent to his room without supper and left to think about his life choices, like not eating his grandma's Jew feed. But not even recalling that putrid smell and taste could soften Kyle's dick even the slightest, in fact, he thinks it worsened the situation.

And then Kyle has the strongest urge to clamp his teeth down on something, to distract from the fact that Stan's thigh was obliviously shaking right against his hardening dick, that Stan probably was blissfully unaware of how hot and bothered Kyle laid underneath him.

And he's about to sink his teeth against Stan's clothed shoulder, to feel the thick fabric against his lips and that perfect _Stan_ smell seep throughout him, when Stan fucking sits up.

"Sorry," Stan blurts out right away, and Kyle can't even tell where the _fuck_ Stan is, only aware that all the warmth has left him and there's no thigh against this untamed monster in his pants and he's just on the cold bathroom floor, horny and alone. "Sorry, dude, I'm just fucking… scared out of my mind, _fuck_."

"Uh-huh," Kyle drones, now fucking pulsing with arousal and feeling like the biggest dipshit in the world, turned the fuck on next to his heterosexual quarterback friend. His invincible mask had been removed, reminding him that, _oh yeah, a record-breaking earthquake just happened, and here you are pitching a tent over your best friend's whispers._

"Dude, that was like, the first earthquake I've ever felt, fuck, I thought I was going to die, and at least I would have died like, with you, that's like how I wanted to die ever since I was like _seven_, because I didn't want you to ever get another best friend, hah…" Stan's panicked rambling echoes through the pitch black disaster of a bathroom, and Kyle's still trying to register Stan's words but he can't really register anything right now, quite frankly.

"U-uh-huh…" Kyle claws his bitten-down fingernails at the bathroom tiles against the back of his head, not finding a fucking way out of this without a solution involving Stan's hand and/or mouth on his dick. But he knew the chances of that ever fucking happening. It doesn't matter if every little heated twitch or pulse he was going through was _all_ for Stan, all for the way his knuckles kind of brushed against the inside of his elbow and the way his soft lips had by chance slid past the flesh over his collarbone- Stan was as heterosexual as you could get. All-American, football-playing, typical pretty girlfriend (who definitely had long reserved the role as his future homecoming queen), classic teenage _handsome_ with this endearing little twinge he's kept since preschool.

All Kyle knew was that he was really, really into that.

"Are you okay, dude? I'm still freaked the fuck out, I don't even know what we're going to do I can't even see you it's so dark, Kyle, but we're alive, we're alive and it's…" Stan trailed off, lost in his own panicked thoughts about what exactly the fuck they were going to do now.

"F-fine. I'm fine," Kyle breathed out, almost silently, but it was that kind of pre-crying intonation that Stan clearly fucking mistook, unaware that he was just horny out of his god damn mind, unaware that he was a terrible, disgusting person.

"But you sound like…"

"I'm _fine_, o-okay, I…" Kyle started fucking quaking again, every inch of him throbbing with a mixture of arousal and frustration. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"Dude, please don't cry, please, I'm here…" And he could hear the denim of Stan's jeans rustle as his legs brushed together, meaning that he was shifting, moving, leaning down to hold Kyle again, _horny_ Kyle with an _unavoidable erection. _

_"St-Stan, _don't-"

But he did, his warm hands again slipping under Kyle's midsection, his legs sliding against Kyle's, and the bulge in his pants prodding Stan's crotch. He could feel Stan freeze. He could feel his heart sink back into his throat, he could feel himself sink into the ground, he could feel his entire _world_ ending. Here's Stan, trying to comfort his best friend in the aftermath of a record-breaking earthquake, discovering all of his dark secrets in one uncomfortable sensation.

"…D-" is as far as Stan gets, before they hear the bathroom doors swing open and the beam of a flashlight illuminates the bathroom. And a petty little female voice, a certain _lavender _female, the one voice Kyle could not fucking hear right now.

"H-hello? _Stan?_ Oh, please…" it's Wendy, of _course _it's Wendy, and Kyle realizes that he had assumed she'd just been crushed by the imploding second floor, he'd assumed that he and Stan were the only ones alive and would be left responsible for the Colorado repopulation, or lack thereof.

Stan's body eases off of him, and he takes shards of Kyle's broken heart up with him. He isn't quite sure what's worse, finding out that your best male friend has the hots for you straight at the source, through a denim barrier, or simply telling him, "Stan, your very presence stimulates every nerve in my body."

It would be awkwardly fucking scientific like that, too- Kyle couldn't really imagine himself being sexually direct in a way that was at all satisfying. He couldn't imagine himself being sexual, really.

"W-wends? Yeah, we're, uh, we're in here, _fuck_…" Stan calls out, his voice raised so it booms through the porcelain acoustics of the bathroom, finally pushing the warm buildup of tears at Kyle's eyelids to breach through. He blew it, with a capital_ blew it._

He hears the click of Wendy's heels speed across the tiles, her breaths coming out in dainty, desperate little puffs. Kyle really couldn't handle this right now.

"_Stan, _oh my god, Stan, you're okay, _you're okay!" _Wendy shrieks, and he hears her pushing open every stall door down the line, wishing that females were physically forbidden from mens' bathrooms, leaving Stan and Kyle to a passionately honest discussion. Though, back into reality, he realizes he'd probably prefer watching Wendy cling and tremble against Stan to trying to make some sorry excuse for the dagger in his pants.

"Babe, w-we're, uh, down at the last stall," Stan calls out, and Kyle hates when he calls Wendy that because he fucking _loves_ that pet name, and as Wendy probably takes it for granted each time "babe" comes out of his mouth, there's nothing Kyle wants more than to be kissed on the face with the soft whisper of a "babe," a request from another room in their home in the mountains, "babe, can you grab my coat?" And he'd do it, he'd lower Stan's brown pea coat off the rack and pull it through his arms, button up his chest and peck him on the lips and wish him a good day at the office as he takes his briefcase out into the cold winter air.

Kyle hopes he can just open his eyes and wake up back into a world where Stan wasn't ever well aware of the state of Kyle's dick.

Wendy gets to their stall, Stan unlocking the speckled black door and that fucking flashlight forcing Kyle to see Stan, his perfect god damn body and face and hair and eyes that were all on top of him, that were all his for a few fucking minutes. She lunges towards him and squeaks against his neck, his god damn hands running through her long black hair, his soft lips pressing against her jaw.

Then they both look at Kyle, and he's not sure why they're looking like that, until he remembers he's still lying on the floor, eyes red and cheeks tear-stained.

"U-uh, um," he fumbles, trying to rise to his feet and feeling the fucking Dairy Queen creep up his throat, wanting to just lie on this godawful floor for the rest of his life and hope that everyone forgets about him and his dick.

But Wendy reaches out her hand, _Wendy_, of all people, not Stan, but _Wendy_, and for a second he just glares at the offer, thinking about how pathetic he must be to need _Wendy_ to help him up. Though he figures he _has _to accept it, that or lie here like the useless thing he is, shaking for attention from his super best friend. Some super best friend he fucking is, only allowed to get touched under earthquake circumstances.

So he takes Wendy's hand and the tears feel like they're going to breach again, his entire face heating with shame, his knees wobbling with low blood sugar, his dick soft with humiliation.

And then he's finally on his feet, trying to look anywhere but at Stan, ending up putting his face in his palms.

"Are you alright, Kyle?" Wendy asks, and it's almost fucking mocking, Kyle feels like this pitiful thing that no one wants to deal with, and he really doesn't know what to do with himself.

"Nnn," is all Kyle can get out, mustering a meek little nod, his chest aching for some kind of attention or care, or maybe from the clogged arteries, kudos to Dairy Queen.

"W-well, uh, I came right here, b-because I figured this would be the most private place and I… _Stan_, what if my friends are dead, wh…" Wendy starts to pant out, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder, every single decibel making Kyle's head pound, making the nausea intensify, making the world end.

"Honey, honey… it's okay, I'm here, I'm alive, okay?" his beautiful, sweet voice melts through Kyle like honey, soothing the pulses in his head and ringing out like a symphony.

Then his heart plummets to his feet, when it hits him that _no_, if the population has indeed been wiped out, it will be Stan and Wendy left responsible; little black-haired, blue-eyed babies dressed in horrendous purple clothing carrying out future generations, while Kyle stands by and sees the man of his dreams only in the headlines. He'll be left in the snow, only needing a crushing embrace that says _I'm here_, as Stan and Wendy fuck like rabbits.

"I know, I _know_, Stan, you're here, you're perfect…" Wendy whispers into his collar, running thick girl fingers across the nape of his neck, and when those crippling words cancel out Stan's butter of a voice, he hopes that someday he can say those exact same words, mumbling against his lips in a moonlit bedroom, when Stan finally lets him in, when he finally takes him, when he's finally _his, _all _his, _every single inch.


End file.
